Beautifully Broken
by FerryBerry
Summary: Post S2. Rachel is damaged; Quinn is determined to fix her.
1. Part 1

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. All belongs to Glee writers and creators.

**A/N:** Drabble series I'll be working on every now and then, nothing to worry about disrupting updates because it seriously takes like two minutes to write each part.

**Part 1**

It took me three months to get it.

I know that seems like a really long time for me to dawdle about like some idiot, but it's not as though we did it every night. It was usually only once a week, at a party or something. A few times at school when she had an itch to scratch and I was all too willing to help her out.

See, I've had this problem. Since the ninth grade, my third period English class, when a girl wearing a plaid skirt and knee highs plopped into the chair next to me, sleek brunette locks whipping over her shoulders as her perfectly white teeth flashed at me. My jaw practically hit the floor. I was overwhelmed with the citrus scent clogging my nostrils, the brightness of her chocolate colored eyes, the sweet cadence of the voice wishing me a good morning. I've been in like with Rachel Berry since then.

And sure, the high school hierarchy and a boy named Finn Hudson yanked us apart and forced me into my role as the Head Bitch In Charge, but pregnancy and glee club brought us closer together, even after, when I wanted Prom Queen so badly I'd have done anything to nab it. But I never stopped wanting her.

I was on cloud nine that night at Puck's midsummer party, finding her dancing in the midst of the rest of the crowd. We were both tipsy, her beautiful eyes were glazed, and she grabbed me by my belt buckle and pulled me in until I had my arms around her waist and we were dancing with abandon. And if I wasn't giddy enough at this, she soon dragged me up the stairs and into a room I didn't recognize in the dark, shoving me against the door in lieu of closing it and smashing her lips to mine. I took her again and again that night and woke up equal parts relieved and devastated when I found her gone.

And then at the next party, it happened again, and again, and again. I was on cloud nine again. I figured she understood how I felt, how I fell more in love with her every time my skin touched hers, and that she was giving me this because she knew I couldn't do what Santana and Brittany had done—not yet, not under my mom's roof.

It wasn't until the other night that I really understood that it wasn't about me. It never was. It was about self-loathing. She would have been just as happy—though it wasn't really about happiness, either—with someone else on top of her, making her moan, driving her over the edge. I just happened to be the person she found on the dance floor that night, the one that looked at her with unadulterated lust.

I should have noticed the signs, of course. I noticed how in public she was quieter, her clothing taking on darker shades as time went on, her skin getting paler, how she was wearing thicker and thicker makeup, like if she wore enough she could paint herself a whole new face. Her frowns became more common. I noticed, but I didn't say anything—during the day. At night, at those parties, when I could finally have her again, I gushed about how beautiful she was, told her how much she turned me on. But then, I should have realized she never heard a word.

She always had her eyes closed, through the entirety of our encounters, almost. She only opened her eyes to work on me, because even though it wasn't about me, she was still too nice to leave me hanging. And she never uttered a word, never moaned my name when she came. It didn't bother me because I figured that's how she must be during sex. It never occurred to me that she kept her eyes closed because it wasn't me, it was the feeling. I never once thought she didn't moan my name because her mind was empty of anything but the feeling I gave to her.

Until the other night, when we'd finished, laying there on the bed of the week, panting and covered in sweat. She didn't wait until I'd fallen asleep this time, only waiting long enough to recover before she slid off the bed and went to retrieve her clothes, but I wanted more time, more chances to hold her, be with her. So I propped myself up on my elbows and said, "Stay."

In that instant where she looked up, confusion scrunching her gorgeous face, I got it. Even without the realization that crashed over, the tears suddenly slipping down her cheeks as she understood, too. She finally realized that she'd been leading me on, using me, that this wasn't nothing to me. And I finally realized it wasn't about me at all.

She rushed out; I didn't stop her.

I overheard her talking to Mercedes about the next party; she insisted she's not coming, and I'm delighted. Not because I don't want her again, but because it signals the beginning of a new era, where I, Quinn Fabray, am going to reintroduce myself to Rachel Berry, who is finally going to see how fucking gorgeous she is. And when I have her again, that name is going to be the only thing she remembers in the English language.


	2. Part 2

**Part 2**

I let it go about a week before I approached her again. She needed space after the revelations of our last night together, time to absorb everything and hopefully find some way to assuage some of her guilt. Because she was feeling horribly guilty.

I could see it in her brown eyes, the shame written deep beneath lashes hanging thick with mascara every time our gazes locked. She didn't let it happen often, and after the third time, I stopped all attempts to smile at her, because she ended it almost as soon as it happened. I could see it in the way she tensed any time I passed too close to her. She wouldn't shift away, not wanting to draw attention, but her shoulders bunched and her head dropped, only relaxing after my presence was long gone. Well, 'relaxing' was a loose term, considering she was only getting worse.

I hadn't realized how much our rendezvous helped her, mostly because they didn't seem to change anything in her behavior. In fact, she only seemed to get progressively worse. Now I could see it had been keeping her from the edge, and I was determined to pull her back. Not by starting things up again—not only would she probably refuse, considering my feelings, but like I said, she's going to meet Quinn Fabray, she's going to see me for real now. I'm going to make myself someone to her now, not just some cardboard cutout swaying in the background.

I decided to start with something a little more private than glee club—I'd been sitting in seats closer to her throughout the week, just to ease her into things—but a little more public than our party liaisons, so as not to overwhelm her with too much alone time at once.

The first step was getting Kurt and Mercedes in on it, which took less than thirty seconds. All it took was a nonchalant comment interjected in a moment of silence about how it had been some time since we'd had a girl's night, and they were immediately off on how we could have it at my house and watch musicals and do makeovers—I nodded along graciously as they went, offering that we could perhaps watch 'Funny Girl.' They instantly said it would be sacrilege to view it without their fellow diva, and I simply said I wouldn't be bothered by her presence should she come. It was easy enough to deflect their surprise from there, explaining that they were friends with both me and her, neither of us was with Finn anymore, and perhaps it was time the two of us made amends and made social gatherings easier on our two best friends.

They were delighted, of course, and more than encouraging when I suggested that I be the one to offer the invitation, seeing as it would be at my house anyway, and it could be a jumping off point for us, an olive branch of sorts. And so I approached her locker with their full support at the end of the day on Friday, books clutched to my chest to hide the way my hands were shaking even as I willed them to stop. I didn't really feel nervous—not too much so, anyway. I was sure she would accept the invitation, seeing that there would be two very strong buffers for us there and, besides, she had never been known to turn down the rare invitation she received to a party of some sort.

It was just that it was the first time I would be near her in a week, and I was equal parts excited and anxious. I knew putting myself so close to temptation could lead to disaster—why else do you think I behaved the way I did before I could accept my feelings for her? She's irresistible to me. But I could do this. It was time things changed, and this was the first step, that's all. I can show her who I am, and I can wait.

So as I strode up, I coached myself to exude confidence I had nearly lost around her when I found out my feelings were less than reciprocated, a sway in my hips and a broad smirk on my face, even a mild sternness to my voice as I greeted, "Hey, Rachel."

She looked up sharply, doe-eyed, and for a moment she truly reminded me of a deer caught in headlights, her plump lips hanging slightly open and frozen panic meshed with horror painted on her face. Shame flickering in her eyes.

Then her gaze dropped away, her cheeks flushed, and she said so quietly I barely heard her, "H-hi, Quinn."

"Listen, I'm having a girl's night at mine tomorrow. Makeovers, musicals, pillow fights—the whole shebang," I purred, leaning my shoulder casually against the locker next to hers. I knew it was throwing her off that I was acting like nothing was unusual about all this, that I wasn't acknowledging what happened between us. Her brow was knit tight and she was actually looking at me for once—though not in the eye. "It'll just be me, Mercedes, and Kurt and so I'm inviting you. We've both been friends with them long enough without bridging the gap; don't you think it's time we gave them a break from bouncing between us for a weekend?"

I smirked, watching the wheels turn in her head, her mouth open and close as she struggled to answer. It was incredibly adorable.

"I…I…yeah," she mumbled at length, clearing her throat before saying more audibly, "That…that sounds fun."

My smirk turned into a genuine, wide smile and, before I could stop myself, I leaned a little closer to her, drawing her gaze straight up to mine, leaving her with no escape. I tried to ignore the drop in my stomach when I saw up close just how much she hated herself, how much self-loathing and shame was in them. I almost wished she'd never found out about my feelings, so I couldn't have added to it—almost.

"Great. See you at seven tomorrow," I said, trying to keep the sudden shake from my voice as I saw a change in her demeanor taking place.

I tried to turn away, to save both of us from this moment, but I was caught in the battle she was waging—and losing—against her inner turmoil that was just begging to come out. Her lips began to tremble as she nodded weakly to my words, still trying to pretend nothing was happening, even as her knuckles went white in their grip on her locker door and her big brown eyes filled with tears. I so wanted to catch her up in my arms, to hold her and assure her that everything was all right, that I was there, but her shoulders drooped and her lips parted and she met my eyes so earnestly as a tear escaped one of hers and she whispered with a cracking voice, "I'm so sorry, Quinn."

I was somewhat grateful that the hall had emptied. I didn't want her to have such a vulnerable moment in front of so many people, or me, for that matter. Because before I knew it, I had lurched even closer and my hand was on her cheek, swiping away the wetness that was flowing down with more and more freedom and angling her jaw so she had no choice but to meet my eyes unless she clenched hers shut. She did, briefly, to squeeze out more painful tears as she trembled under my touch, but then they were wide and open and on mine and I didn't break our connection as I replied firmly, "I don't want you sorry."

_I want you better…I want you happy._ I left the words unspoken, let her read them in my eyes instead, let them seep into her through my hand on her face as it caressed and soothed. I relished the touch for a moment longer while she sniffled and fought back the tears, waiting until she had taken a few breaths to compose herself before I reluctantly stepped back, and smiled, and said, "See you tomorrow at seven."

She didn't smile, but I saw her nod in confirmation and decided to consider it a battle won as I turned and strode down the hall toward my locker.


	3. Part 3

**Part 3**

I spent most of Saturday getting things around for the party. My mother had business to attend to in Columbus and wouldn't be back until the following evening, which was perfect for me. As much as I wanted to help Rachel, I still wasn't ready for my mom to know—and she would, as soon as she saw how I looked at Rachel, how I treated her. I wonder if I would have had that same instinctual, maternal intuition for only a second before I brush the thought aside, internalize, repress, and continue about my day.

There isn't much to prepare, but I still take my time with it, working out the details with as much precision as I know Rachel would. I'm well aware that I'm only being so meticulous because she'll be coming over, and that it is at least somewhat pathetic. I can't find it within myself to care, though, as I turn our plain living room into a veritable jungle of pillows, blankets, and bowls (of chips, popcorn—no butter for my vegan company, and pretzels). The coffee table is littered with DVDs, 'Funny Girl' sitting proudly on top and awaiting Rachel's attention. I admittedly picked it up on my morning run today in hopes of maybe impressing her by already having it.

My bedroom floor is scraped clean of any dirty clothes that wormed their way out of my hamper and items I just didn't feel like putting away at the time, making a suitable space for four sleeping bags to rest before I dig out every accessory and makeup application I own, knowing Kurt will insist upon every available scrap of ammunition in order to turn his chosen makeover partner from 'drab to fab', as he puts it. It's a bit frightening how someone can go from a friend to a human canvas in a matter of seconds with him.

He and Mercedes arrive only minutes after the pizzas get here (two large, one with just cheese, the other split in half with bacon—it seriously tastes good on everything, just trust me—and pepperoni toppings, and one medium vegan pizza on top) and I'm a little concerned that neither of them offered Rachel a ride, but push it aside in favor of helping them get their stuff into my room. Kurt gushes over all the makeup I set out and I have to internally congratulate myself on a job well done. Mercedes is unrolling the sleeping bags while Kurt is prodding me downstairs to see what movies I already set out—apparently he took the liberty of bringing some of his own, just in case. It's then that the doorbell rings, and I take the last three steps with a jump to the bottom and rush forward in my eagerness, and I can't help but grin when I open the door to a lip-biting, fidgeting Rachel.

"Hey," is all I can bring myself to say, and I can tell she's really trying to meet my eyes when she replies, "Hello, Quinn."

I'll never be able to keep myself from smiling when she says my name. It's different from the way anyone else says it. I like it.

I give myself a mental slap, because she's still standing on the porch holding a…plastic bag. And that's it. I'm a little concerned now, but I lean forward to take it from her anyway even as I angle my body so she can slip past me, "Let me take that."

A flush rises in her cheeks, but she lets me have it, ducking her head as she slips in past me with a quiet, "Thank you."

I just smile and shut the door behind her, ignoring the odd look Kurt is giving me in favor of peering in the bag, which holds what looks like a plastic container of celery and some kind of dressing. I have to sigh to myself, because of course she'd think she had to supply her own food. When does anyone else ever think of her?

I suppress a wave of irritation and step past the two to set her celery and dressing next to the chips before turning to thank her for bringing food, play the hostess, but their conversation quickly catches my attention.

"Rachel, darling, you look fabulous," Kurt is telling her. My fists clench of their own accord, even as he spins her to examine the tight black jeans and red tank top she's wearing. Of course she looks hot and all, but it's not her, and I hate that one of my best friends has been encouraging this. "But where's your sleeping bag? We saved you a spot right by the heater like you like, diva." He places his hands on his hips, and Rachel looks utterly panicked.

She looks over at me and I groan with frustration. I'd only told her it was a 'girl's night', not that she would be sleeping over. Shit.

"It-it's a—"

I step forward and I can tell it startles her, so I instinctively wrap my hand around hers as I say, "It's my fault. You can borrow my stuff, I don't mind." I pause, but there's no shift in her expression. "You _can_ stay, can't you?"

Kurt's odd expression is back, even as he turns to pout at Rachel, begging with puppy eyes. I ignore him again, focusing on Rachel. I realize belatedly that I'm rubbing my thumb up and down the back of her hand. It takes some effort to stop, her skin is so _soft_, I've missed having my hands on it. She can't stop looking at our hands, it seems, but eventually she manages to nod, and Kurt is already squealing.

"I-I should probably call my dads, though," Rachel adds quietly, and I smile warmly, just saying, "Of course" before she's swept up in Kurt's arms and they're dancing around the living room, and even though I'm not holding her hand anymore, I don't mind as much, because she's laughing.


	4. Part 4

**A/N:** This one's only off hiatus because it's easy to work on.

**Part 4**

I think things are going well. I hate to say it prematurely, but I think they are.

After setting up all our sleeping bags, getting Rachel to agree to using mine, we all slumped in front of the big, flat screen TV and popped in Funny Girl, proudly placed on top of my stack of movies. Rachel gave me an odd, almost prying look on seeing it. But I just smiled at her, and she said nothing.

All the pizzas were nearly finished within the first half of the movie, though Rachel's little vegan pizza is still half there. She keeps looking at it, hesitating, glancing at Kurt and Mercedes behind her on the couch. They haven't grabbed another slice in sometime, both too wrapped up in the movie and their little commentary to bother.

Still, between staring at them and the slice of pizza she so desperately craves, Rachel has looked happy. Watching her favorite movie, curled up with her knees to her chest on the floor, in front of my couch, covered from neck to toe by my favorite throw, she looks adorable. She mouths along to the movie, a little smile perking up her red, red lips while she tries not to squeal with joy every time Barbra bursts into song. She looks like her again. Save for all that makeup. I can't stop staring.

She grins to herself as a song finishes, but it's only momentary, because soon enough she's peeking into her pizza box again, as if hoping someone has eaten the rest of it in the time she's been distracted. She bites on her bottom lip and peers back at Kurt and Mercedes again, and this time, I've had enough.

I slip out of my comfortable armchair to slide across the carpeting to her, and she's watching my every move, but I don't get too close. I plop down nearby, grab another slice of my bacon pizza, and purposely take a chunk out of it, before offering her a smile. Her cheeks are on fire and it's adorable, but she reaches in front of her and takes another slice of her vegan pizza, and takes a nibble, glancing at me.

My smile is returned with one from her, this time, and I about hit the roof with joy. And not just because bacon pizza is the best food of all time.

XXXXXX

It only takes until the end of the credits of Funny Girl for Kurt to burst off the couch and insist we get on to the makeover portion of the evening. This is better than I expected, personally, since I figured as soon as Rachel walked in the door he'd be mauling her with blush and eye liner, and we'd only find our way back to the food and the movies hours after he had 'perfected' all of us.

Evidently, Mercedes had different ideas about the evening. "Ugh, but I'm comfy, can't we just watch another one?"

Kurt pouts. "And let you spend all night on that couch without being beautified? I don't think so!"

I rise up from the floor, taking my shot. "Then you'll be making over Cedes, I take it?"

He falters. "Actually, I thought we'd go you-Mercedes, me-Rachel."

"Great plan, except for the fact that Rachel already looks exactly like she would if you made her over," I point out, and Mercedes laughs.

"Kinda true, but don't you be getting all clown makeup on me, boy," Mercedes says, finally standing up. "Don't forget makeup is to accentuate your _natural_ beauty. And I got tons."

She high fives me, and I grin briefly, but my attention is on Rachel. Clown makeup didn't go over very well, and neither did natural beauty, but she tosses aside the throw blanket anyway and stands, to trail the rest of us upstairs, Kurt huffing, "Fine."

I'm nervous, for what I'm about to do, for how Rachel will react to it. But she seems rather calm as I sit her down at my vanity table and lean over her, picking up a wipe to carefully remove all of the makeup she already has on. She looks anxious, too, now that I have all my attention on her. Her fingers fidget in her lap, but I pretend not to notice, smiling at her when our eyes meet. I have to ignore the guilt in her eyes tonight.

"Did you plan for wardrobe changes, Quinn, or will I have to make do with your selection of jewelry?" Kurt prompts, and I chuckle.

"You can use anything from my closet that fits." I wink at Rachel, and she blushes. "We'll see how he looks in drag."

She giggles softly, almost in spite of herself, and I straighten. All of that awful makeup is finally gone, off her face. I toss away the wipe and go to my closet, telling her to wait, while I dig through to my winter clothes. Sweaters, that's what I want, or a cardigan. I pull out a black one, patterned with stripes, and take it over to her.

"Lift your arms."

Rachel's cheeks go bright red, but the fact that I'm putting something _on_ her, rather than taking it off this time, seems to help, her face paler again once I have the sweater down on her. I pull her thick hair loose from beneath the fabric, settling it gently around her face. Those beautiful wavy curls. Once that's finished, it's time.

I take a breath, and turn her to face the mirror. No makeup, no cleavage. Just beautiful, normal Rachel in a snug little sweater. I stroke her shoulders, rubbing.

"Beautiful," I comment softly, and Rachel stares.

Her eyes start to water, and I smile at her in the mirror, leaning down to whisper in her ear, "Beautiful."

Rachel swallows, and turns her head to look at me. I smile again, and repeat, "Beautiful," and this time she closes her eyes, and murmurs, "Thank you."


	5. Part 5

**Part 5**

I'm eternally grateful to Mercedes Jones. While Rachel and I sat at my vanity table, trying on different combinations of jewelry, Kurt (finally) finished her makeover, brought up a mirror to her, and she took a look at my work on Rachel and simply said, "Damn, boy, you need to work on your skills, Miss Fabulous did a hella better job."

For the rest of the evening, Kurt said nothing about my work on Rachel's makeover, and Mercedes' words perked Rachel up enough to stay the way she was, wrapped up in my sweater and makeup-less. Smiling.

Kurt had his fill of makeovers after that, and we all piled back downstairs to continue our movie marathon, with some of my beauty supplies still in hand, of course. Mercedes wanted to paint nails, so we had a little grooming station by the couch, and while our toes dried, she braided my hair back. I caught Rachel watching us, once or twice, I think. At least, she blushed when I looked at her, and buried her nose back into the sweater sleeves. I just smiled.

By midnight, Kurt was practically a drool blanket on Mercedes' shoulder, so we abandoned the end of _Fatal Attraction_ for bed. Now here we lie, snoozing. Or, at least, everyone else does.

I never have been able to get to sleep quickly. Too many thoughts, most of the time. Right now, about Rachel in my pajamas. I'd promised to borrow her my things and so I did, and she had changed into them before slumping into my sleeping bag. A cheerleading t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants, too long for her legs, so she'd rolled up the bottoms. She looked so damn sexy, so damn adorable.

That's the thing about her I always marvel most at. How can I want to scoop her up in a safe little cocoon and squeeze her tight at the same time as I want to bury myself in that body until she screams? I have to stop thinking that way, though. The second way, anyway. That way lies madness, creeping into her sleeping bag and—

Is she crying?

I pick my head up, and roll up to my elbow. Mercedes is farthest from the wall, snoring on her side. Kurt's sleeping bag is still as a rock. But Rachel's is shaking, up and down, making muffled, sad noises.

I'm out of bed before I know it, and padding over to her on bare feet. I step up next to the bag and she freezes, so I sink down to my knees and then settle onto my side behind her, wrapping an arm over her, over the sleeping bag.

She's completely tense, for moments more, but she's melting under my grip. I feel her settling, and slowly letting herself cry again. I lean up on my elbow, not to watch her—I don't want to embarrass her—but to pet her beautiful hair, stroke my fingers through gently while I hug her back to my front. Rachel relaxes into me then, and cries. I think about telling her not to. It makes my chest ache to hear it. But instead I kiss her hair, and she snuggles backward into me and cries until she falls asleep.

XXXXXX

She's gone. I wake up in the morning and I'm lying next to an empty sleeping bag. Kurt and Mercedes are talking quietly behind me, and I push myself up, stretching and groaning. My neck aches.

"Where's Rachel?"

Kurt points toward the bathroom door, and I make my way to my feet, stepping over theirs to the door to lightly knock. I glance back and the two of them are staring at me. Thankfully, Rachel calls softly, "Come in," and I escape their gaze.

"Are you okay?" I ask, and as the door clicks shut behind me, Rachel whips her head around and stares, and blushes, before turning to keep applying the mascara in her hand.

"I'm fine, Quinn, why do you ask?" What a chipper lie.

"Last night—"

"Sometimes people cry," Rachel says suddenly, and her eyes are begging me to stop. "It doesn't mean the world is falling apart."

I nod, slowly, leaning back against the door. She's still in my pajamas. "Also doesn't mean people won't worry about you."

"Well, I'm fine," she shoots back, and then lifts a hand, accusing. "And don't tell me I'm not."

"I wasn't going to."

"I know what you're thinking." She frowns at me.

I tilt my head. "What am I thinking?"

Rachel hesitates, and then spits, "'Poor little Berry. Lost and confused, she's so pathetic. Painting on a face to try to be as pretty as the rest of us when just look at her.'"

I can't help the contortions of my face, the amusement that wants to slide across my expression, and she's furious.

"What?" she snaps. "What's so funny about that?"

"Well, it's just…actually, I was thinking how sexy you look in my clothes," I admit, trailing a bit closer.

Anger is immediately snapped, giving way to a blush as she steps backward, and looks away.

I pause, watching. Time for a tactical retreat. "I'm gonna go make breakfast for us. Any special requests?"

Rachel can only shake her head, and I smile before stepping backward. "Don't put too much of that gunk on, by the way. I like you natural, like last night."

Her cheeks are flaming red as I step out, a smile on my face.


	6. Part 6

**Part 6**

Breakfast went smoothly after that, everyone chattering and stuffing their mouths with the pancakes I flipped onto their plates. Made with all vegan safe ingredients, of course, as I assured Rachel when she hesitated on arriving downstairs, staring at Mercedes and Kurt already wrist deep in maple syrup. That earned me another stare from everyone, of course. Unnecessarily, in my opinion, as if courtesy to your guests was somehow odd or uncalled for.

We spent the morning lying around my living room after that, recovering from full bellies and little sleep. Kurt and Mercedes dressed and got their things around as quick as glaciers, leaving Rachel sitting there awkwardly, already re-dressed in her own clothes from the previous night, clutching her little bag of snacks for herself in her lap. Fortunately, I had the presence to turn on the TV, so she didn't end up fleeing prematurely, and instead sat giggling at Disney Channel cartoons until the other two came back.

And when they all left around noon, I was favored with a shy little smile for my troubles. Totally worth it.

Unfortunately, this little weekend holiday didn't change much at school with Rachel. Makeup is still thick on her face, and she dresses just the same. She still won't quite look at me, either, which I suppose I deserve, after making the comments I did. Still, she brought it on herself, assuming I would be so cruel in my thoughts of her.

I don't let it affect my behavior, however. In fact, I spend even more time around her than before. I sit a seat or two away from her in glee club, sit with her, Mercedes, and Kurt at lunch. Even walk her to class once or twice, when I can catch her. But she never says anything to me, except maybe a thank you here or there. Not surprising that she has nothing to say to me, though. She doesn't really know me—yet.

But I have to wait this time, and be patient. This time, I wait for Mercedes or Kurt to suggest a get-together, and my patience pays off, because the two of them come up with ideas galore—too many to do all in one day, or even one weekend, but putt-putt golf is a start.

The four of us go on Saturday, in Kurt's precious new SUV, singing along to the radio as loudly as we can and garnering a few strange looks from other cars when we're at stop signs. Rachel, for once, doesn't seem to care, and only sings louder with the rest of us. I give her a smile of approval afterward, and she blushes back at me.

Her anger, at least, seems to have faded with last week. It was a defensive reaction to my unusual kindness, I suppose, and I'm glad she's gotten over it. At least enough to let me get her door for her when we get to the putt-putt course.

Kurt is terrible at it, so much so I have to wonder why he even agreed to come, because he fumes every time he passes the par. Which is on almost every hole. I've never seen his face quite that red before, and privately, to Mercedes and Rachel, I pretend to throw my golf club and break it in half, leaving them giggling behind him, which of course only makes him fume even more.

It's hysterical to watch.

"Even I'm not _that_ bad," Rachel mutters to us, around the ninth hole, watching him stomp off to get his ball from the bushes. "I don't think."

"Honey, _nobody's_ that bad," Mercedes affirms, leaving Rachel with a more relaxed smile.

"Well," I say, skeptically, and Cedes nudges me to go on. "Don't forget, we _do_ know Santana."

Both of them giggle, and Mercedes nods. "True that. At least he isn't bitch slapping anyone, I'd have to pull that pretty head of hair out. Honest to God, I thought not keeping score this time would help."

"It never works with Santana, either, she's always secretly keeping track. Never trust a psycho."

"Aren't you and Santana friends?" Rachel says, hesitating.

I glance back at her from watching Kurt's seventh try, as the ball dashes over the lip of the hole. "Yeah. Best. But that doesn't mean she's not completely insane."

I give her a grin, and again, her face flushes bright red.

"Besides, judge not. Look at _your_ best friend," I tease, nodding toward Kurt, squeaking indignantly at the refusal of the ball to go in.

"This thing is RIGGED! It's totally slanted!"

Rachel and Mercedes giggle behind me again, and I hear her say, softly, "Good point."


	7. Part 7

**Part 7**

By the time Kurt finally gets his ball to dive into the demonic eleventh hole (admittedly with a little cheating), a downpour lets loose on us and we all race through the course to get back inside, return our clubs and balls, and dry off with some ice cream, Rachel with a vegan parfait. Despite all this, however, and despite the fact that he has chocolate in his mouth and smeared around his lips, Kurt still can't let it go. Mercedes rolls her eyes to me across the table, and I smirk in return.

"It's rigged," he reiterates determinedly. "You can even see it on some of them; they build up the ground around the cup so your ball will just roll off to the side."

"Kurt!" Rachel laughs out.

"Seriously, get a grip," Mercedes chuckles.

He fumes again, cheeks bright pink, but the silence only lasts a moment before he's off again, this time directly at Mercedes, "You just don't care because you won."

"Nobody won," Mercedes groans, and then cuts him off again instantly to say, "Okay, it's bathroom break time." She lifts a hand in Kurt's open mouth. "Ladies first. Quinn, join me?" She stands up before she realizes, and adds to Rachel, "I'd lady you, too, but I need somebody who's not gonna steal my chapstick to guard my purse."

The little wink she adds seems to heal any hard feelings, as Rachel smiles suddenly and nods, and I pop out of my chair to follow Mercedes to the back. The little guilt I feel for leaving her to fend for herself with obsessive boy is assuaged a bit by a glance back—she's taunting him with a finger in each ear.

"Sometimes I wonder why I put up with him. And then I remember he's got a better skin care collection than I do," Mercedes says once she comes out, giving me a smile as she leans to wash her hands.

I favor her with a chuckle.

"So," she continues, wiping her hands on her pants as she turns to me.

My eyebrow rises instinctively. "So?"

"I can see what you're doing, you know. With Rachel?" Before I can say anything, Mercedes smiles up at me, and adds, "I think it's great, for the record. And about time somebody did something."

I can't help but cock my head. "I was starting to think I was the only one with a brain around here."

"I've noticed, the way she's been spiraling, but. Honestly, I didn't really know what to do. I haven't even been able to convince Kurt that it's kind of not a good thing she's decided she's a disaster piece, how was I supposed to help her see she's a masterpiece, like me?" She grins shortly. "Then you suggested that sleepover, and I remember the way you helped me, last year."

I clear my throat. "Do you…know when this all started, with her?"

Mercedes sighs, thinking. "Well, now I think about it, it was probably right after the breakup with Finn."

"I thought the whole decision was mutual."

"Well. That's the way Finn tells it," she says, pointedly.

"Meaning he tells everyone that so he doesn't look like a jackass for dumping her," I sigh.

"Right. I wouldn't have thought it, but Rachel, she won't even tell Kurt anything about what happened. So I figured, he's covering."

"They've broken up before. It hasn't affected her like this."

Mercedes' face scrunches up, and she shrugs. "I guess this time she doesn't see any hope of a merry reunion? I don't know, girl. I think something really bad must've gone down."

"Finn wouldn't _hurt_ her. He can be an inconsiderate ass, but he wouldn't…"

"No, no," she agrees quickly. "I just mean…bad enough to make her think she's got to do what she's doing. I mean, you know how it is, people tell you for so long you aren't worth it, and eventually you believe it. Like I did, when Coach Sylvester was pressuring me? Maybe the breakup was enough to make her buy it this time."

I frown, shifting my stance. "Yeah. Yeah, maybe."

"But if anyone can pull her out of it, it's you," Mercedes adds after a beat, giving me a nudge to the shoulder. "You helped me. You made me feel beautiful again. And I mean that in a strictly Kinsey 1 kind of way." She winks.

I grin at her. "Damn. You sure?"

"Sorry, baby. I only have eyes for Hugh. Jackman, that is."

"I have to tell you this, as a friend—that was a Kurt's golfing on the scale of bad puns."

She pulls a face, but can't help a giggle when I nod sagely at her. "Well, I appreciate your honesty, but it still hurts."

"Okay, you can't fault Kurt for stealing from _Mean Girls_ and then steal from SNL," I tease, and she shakes her head this time.

"Just c'mere, you big meanie."

She yanks me down to her height for a hug, and I smile over her shoulder, squeezing her until we hear someone clear their throat behind us.

"Everything okay? We were getting kind of worried," Rachel says slowly.

"Oh, fine, we were just having a little girly talk," Mercedes answers, and I simply nod.

Rachel bites at her lip, but only nods back as we head back out to sit with our dear, abandoned Kurt, who perks up when we get back to say, "You girls and your bathroom heart-to-hearts. Someday I'm getting a law passed that the gays and women share bathrooms, it's only fair."

I just share a smirk with Mercedes as we sit, and trail my gaze to the left of her, only to meet Rachel's eyes. She blushes almost as soon as we make eye contact, and turns to address Kurt instead, but she glances back once or twice. I make sure to redden her cheeks a little more with a steady smile.


End file.
